Crime and Punishment
Cam went in and out of consciousness.
The police beating him down.
The next moment a woman shook her head and said not like that.
Then he was at a hospital.
“He’s got something stuck in his head. Some sort of wire.”
“Think we should pull it?”
Then back in a room hand cuffed to a seat bolted to the floor.
Then he was staring at a round salt water fish-tank attached to the ceiling. He looked around him, out a massive window stood the base of the bay bridge. He looked over the railing and saw that he was on a second floor restaurant of an opulent restaurant.
He looked at the plate in front of him. Scallop appetizer. They were large enough that he cut into one before putting them in his mouth.
The man sitting across from him introduced himself.
“Aaron Copland.”
Cam nodded and ate.
“Very good,” Cam said, “Tasty.”
“You are composing yourself, yes? I think you are awake now.”
“Yeah,” Cam said, “I’m coming to. What is this place?”
“This is your punishment.”
“Really.” Cam looked around, “Bummer.”
“This is your new identity,” Copland said sliding an envelope to Cam.
Cam opened the envelope and slide out an American passport. He was surprised to see his photo without the bruses and eye patch. Cam looked up.
“The miracle of photoshop.”
Cam nodded and motioned to his face.
“Your eye should be fine.”
“What did I do?”
“You shot and killed a young man in front of several police officers. Why did you do that, by the way?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t know how I got here.”
Copland snorted in disgust.
“I haven’t the time,” he said.
“Did you just here something?”
“A police station blowing up?”
“No.” Cameron looked at Copland and stared at his lips, ”say something.”
“Something.”
“Weird.”
Cameron looked at the name on the passport, “Richard Blaine, American. Are my eyes really blue?”
Copland snatched the passport out of Cam’s hand and read it.
“That’s not what it says,” Copland said and tossed the passport back at Cam.
“You smuggled something in and it was stolen from you.”
“And you want it back?”
“No,” Copland said, “I have no interest in that. I am interested in the man with violet eyes. You saw him tonight.”
“I did.”
“He was the man, who stole your package and killed the people you were delivering the package to. We do not know what he looks like, but there are several interested groups and you are the only surviving witness.”
“Why not just let me stay in jail?”
“He’ll blow up the jail.”
“There you go again.”
“How Regan=esk.” Copland said, “For that it is important that you remain hidden. When we are ready, we will let it be known you survive. And then he will hunt you down and kill you and then we will kill him.”
“Bummer. So much unnecessary violence.”
“No good deed goes unpunished, my friend,” Copland said, “You’ve been living too sheltered of a life. The man with the violet eyes will kill us all if he gets the chance.”
By the time General Horn’s men tracked down Copland and Cameron, the two men were approaching a limousine, two guards holding up the bandaged man.
They followed the vehicle to the airport and watched as the vehicle drove onto the tarmac. They raised their eyebrows as the stealth bomber landed, loaded, and disappeared back into the San Francisco night.
“Impressive,” one said to the other. They nodded in agreement.
General Horn began the task of following the other Cameron Duncans. There was one in San Mateo and he ordered the two men at the airport to join forces in case any of those other cocksuckers tried anything.
Horn sat and tried to make sense of it. The little asshole had been up to something, smuggling something, but not from his deployment…Maybe. And then Copland drops out of the sky to the rescue and pulls off some Hollywood switch under the noses of the cops after the shit goes down.
And then off they go flying into the night. And his tracker was busted which meant a visual tracking. He didn’t like it. And he really didn’t like that particular Cameron.
The jet had been airborne for an hour when the news finally reached him. The violet eyed man. Horn looked over the second report, piecing together the incident despite being blown to hell. Eye witnesses were coming forward and the more he read, the more sinking he felt in his stomach. Then the President called. And he had an excuse to blow those Cocksuckers out of the sky.
He picked up the phone. He said, “FYI, FYA.” And hung up.
Then he dialed again and launched a stealth killer.
